


ready for the world about to come

by returnsandreturns



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Domestic, M/M, serial killers in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-27
Updated: 2015-07-27
Packaged: 2018-04-11 11:18:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4433483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/returnsandreturns/pseuds/returnsandreturns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is always enough money, and the bread is always fresh, and Will doesn’t hear the screaming anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	ready for the world about to come

**Author's Note:**

> I mostly just wanted Hannibal and Will to run away together and kill people together in a beautiful French countryside town. This has no real plot, it's literally just a few scenes worth of that.

There is always enough money, and the bread is always fresh, and Will doesn’t hear the screaming anymore. Hannibal’s always been good at making people comfortable before he slides a knife between their ribs. They die with compliments and wine on their lips, and Will has learned how to clean blood from the dark mahogany table, from the silverware and the bone white china. Hannibal helps him clean it from under his fingernails with the blade of Will’s pocket knife, holding Will’s hand gently to keep him steady. He’ll run the blade lightly over the veins on the soft underside of Will’s wrist just to feel him shudder and press into it, the thrill of a point, a line of pink on white then _red_ and the knife on the floor and Hannibal’s fingers in his hair.

He eats the meat because he knows them before they die and he can’t think of anything to make it okay besides letting them die for a reason. They eat the meat. They don’t honor every part, but they honor death just as they playact it: Hannibal’s hand around his throat, Will’s teeth on his jugular, the last parts of a parking attendant carefully wrapped in wax paper in the freezer.  

*

Hannibal speaks French in long, fluid sentences, and Will knows enough that he picked up in Louisiana to get by; the locals smile indulgently at his accent. They watch Hannibal’s hand on his arm with knowing eyes, whisper about them in words that Hannibal will repeat to him later, saying, “They are jealous of one of us,” while he unbuttons Will’s shirt with one hand.

“I’m jealous of myself sometimes,” Will replies, too honestly, dropping his arms so the shirt slides to the floor. Hannibal is always watching him, taking him in like he’s something temporary. His fingers brush over Will’s stomach and stop to rest on his waist.

“They think you’re a classic American beauty,” Hannibal says, and Will laughs.

“Like a Hepburn?” he asks.

“Hmm, perhaps,” Hannibal says, softly. He reaches up to touch Will’s cheek, and Will breathes in sharply. “Some had less than savory remarks that they’d do well to not repeat.”

“About us?”

“You,” Hannibal says. “Would you like to hear what they want to do to you?”

Will steps closer. He’s been working on touching, not just being touched. Knowing the right times to get into Hannibal’s space and fill in the gaps. His chest presses against the buttons of Hannibal’s shirt, starched and white. There’s heat radiating between them, so much that Will almost expects it to be visible. He thinks about steam rising up from the stove and the smell of bacon, maybe, something salted and thick with fat.

Hannibal’s fingers dig into his skin, a knife’s edge of a smile, when Will leans in to say, “I’d rather hear what you’re going to do to them.”

*

The woman isn’t dead yet.

Her throat has been cut so she can’t speak, her head tilting back at an angle that Will’s only seen on corpses, but her eyes follow him as he walks in. He thinks, for just a moment, that Hannibal has gotten careless over their time together, because Will’s never seen the process since they stepped onto the plane. He’s smiled at them over dinner, bantered and flirted and did everything that Hannibal taught him with a careful guiding hand and soft praise. He makes eye contact and pretends like he’s pleased with the guests at their table. He performs and then excuses himself before dessert.

Will’s never seen them die, just the mess in the aftermath.

His instincts flare up: pressure to stop the bleeding, call for an ambulance—“ _S'il vous plaît envoyer de l'aide”—_ but then he sees it for what it is: an invitation.

A gift.

She is neatly bound at her wrists and ankles, no other wounds but the one on her neck. If Hannibal had killed her, he would have cut her open with surgical precision, pulled back skin and cracked open ribs to get at what’s inside. Will swallows bile in his throat and snaps her neck in one move. Her eyes don’t close.

“Simple,” Hannibal says, from the doorway. “Not elegant but extremely like you.”

“I don’t have your sense of aesthetic,” Will replies.

Hannibal steps down, takes Will’s hand. He runs one long finger over Will’s palm, through the blood, and Will’s eyes flutter shut when Hannibal presses it to his lips, slides it in against his tongue. It’s almost too much. Will doesn’t know when it’s finally going to be too much.

“We’ll make an artist of you yet, Will,” Hannibal murmurs.

*

At night, Hannibal reads him Blake while pressed up close against him, traces the illustrations like he’s attempting to memorize their lines. Will doesn’t believe that Hannibal thinks of him as an angel anymore than he thinks himself a demon, but the words ring true, on the page and hissed against his neck— _those who restrain desire, do so because theirs is weak enough to be restrained._

 

**Author's Note:**

> detectivekatebishop on Tumblr.


End file.
